I Love You More
by p-attinson
Summary: Annabelle is 5-7 months. John is convinced that Sherlock is incapable of loving their child as much as he. But when John leaves for work (angry due to the fact he never sees Sherlock coddling Annabelle like he does) Sherlock is almost an entirely different man. One-shot. Fluffy stuff.


Of course Sherlock loves his daughter.

For God's sake it's _his_ daughter. _His_ genes were the ones to dominate in the belly of Irene Adler. Annabelle received _his_chocolate curls, _his _mind, _his _intelligence, and _his_ mouth. _Not_ John's. And how he could possibly believe that Sherlock is incapable of loving someone as much as he loves his work is beyond his imagination…to some extent.

John doesn't see what happens behind these closed doors between nine to five. He doesn't understand the value of the relationship that Sherlock holds with the delicate human being in his arms. Sometimes when he's working on a case, leaning over the kitchen table and peering through a microscope, it's Annabelle that's in his lap.

Sherlock's incredibly patient with only one thing; Annabelle herself. A delicate reminder that this world is not an illusion for the greater good, but proof. As a scientific man, Sherlock Holmes was bound to believe that nothing could restore his faith in humanity if it weren't for his little girl. When she coo's and blubbers against his chest he rocks her into a dull sleep where she lulls in soft, musical snores.

One day Sherlock was quite bored. He had no case. Annabelle was crawling around the living room and propping herself up to sit. She had tried to reach for the skull that was against the (now padded edged) coffee table, but failed when Sherlock noticed and placed the skull on the fireplace. She almost looked a bit furious at him.

So, he decided to be _that_ father. He let her touch the skull. And soon Annabelle was bonding with a piece of human structure, clinging to it with her tiny fists and laughing with it as if it had told her a joke. Sherlock was quite pleased with the outcome; she couldn't break the skull. It was impossible, right? She hadn't enough strength.

But he was wrong. Sherlock Holmes was quite wrong.

It didn't take long before Annabelle had accidently dropped the fairly light friend of hers against the wooden floor. It cracked to bits; part of the head still intact and some of it spewed across the floor like chippings of paint.

So naturally, Annabelle began to cry. Her friend was hurt. She pouted so heavily that her bottom lip jutted out and her pretty grey eyes (that she received from her dadda) hung with tears. Her frilly, lavender dress was becoming sodden with the few that escaped her pretty orbs.

Sherlock tsk'ed underneath his breath. You'd think he'd be more worried about the skull, but alas, it was his rose cheeked daughter that he ran to and swept in his arms while leaving the skull abandoned and broken on the floor.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called, wiping the tears from Annabelle's eyes. "Oh, it's okay my love. Dadda's here." He whispered in secret.

Mrs. Hudson, in all her motherly glory, reached the sitting room with an expression of horror plastered against her elderly face. She must have expected to find Annabelle dead on the floor.

"Sherlock! What did you do to your skull?" she shrieked. "Don't you know not to get so frustrated in front of Annabelle? You know what John says it does to her…"

Sherlock glared at her while Annabelle still streamed with tears. "I let her toy with the skull and she dropped it. She's just frightened. Do you mind?" He nodded towards the mess. He held her against his chest with one hand on her head and the other on her bottom, cradling her towards him.

Mrs. Hudson said no more. She knew of the endeavors of raising a child. It was not before long that Sherlock had carried Annabelle into her nursery and that Mrs. Hudson began sweeping.

Sherlock grunted as he sat with Annabelle on her rocking chair; a gift from Mycroft last Christmas when John and Sherlock had announced they would be having a child. It was an antique but nicely refurnished with dark wood and tiny angel cherubs carved in the back of the chair.

Sherlock cradled Annabelle, cooing her softening bellows of anguish. She was simply whimpering now, resting her head against his chest and he hovered over her like a protective father bear. He began to stroke her cheek with his large hands, kissing her forehead and rocking her back and forth.

"I guess your father is right…" he sighs. Annabelle just snuggles herself closer to him. "-sometimes I figure he's doing better than I."

He lifts her so that she's facing him directly. Her wide, bubbly eyes are now rimmed with red from her sniffling. Her button nose is wiggling. Sherlock smirks tenderly while situating her on his legs.

"I'm going to tell you something pretty amazing, Annabelle…" he whispers to her. She just continues to stare at him, bright eyed. And though it may seem impossible to most, Sherlock Holmes's pair of eyes wet. "Your father is a solider; that's the closest we may get to a knight-in-shinning-armor. So I want you to remember something…" he kisses her nose. "-though I may be bland, or uptight, and possibly self-absorbed, I will always love you more."

Annabelle smiles and makes a gurgling noise.

"And your father," Sherlock continues "Well, I love him too. And you are so very lucky to have parents who love each other." Then he pauses, feeling drops of saltwater tears trickle down his cheekbones. "Here's my secret, my darling girl; you made me a better man."

In the midst of the delicate moment, Annabelle reaches out her hands to Sherlock's tears and almost slaps them away and the action makes Sherlock chuckle deep in his throat. Her pudgy hands grasp his face and she laughs brightly, resting her head against his.

There is the sound of someone clearing their throat in the doorway. Sherlock finds his partner staring longingly at the two, his arms crossed against his chest and his mouth formed into a polite smile as if he's never seen something so beautiful. He's shed his work clothes and is now sporting his usual jumper and a pair of trousers.

"I love you," is all he says.

To both of them.


End file.
